Closure
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: "They had a funeral. Funny things, funerals are. I'd only remembered being to one or two in my youth. Curious, the things people do for sentiment." Rated for language and future mature themes. Spoils and all that.
1. Sentmient

NOTE: It's not even 9 in the morning yet and I am stricken with inspiration, in desperate need of closure (no pun intended) after last night's grueling yet brilliant episode, _The Reichenbach Fall_. Of course, this story contains spoils and all that jazz, but if you need a fix as I do, read this.

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><p>CHAPTER 1<p>

_Sentiment_

They had a funeral. Funny things, funerals are. I'd only remembered being to one or two in my youth. Curious, the things people do for sentiment.

John identified the body previous to said funeral. He saw the slightly mangled face, the bashed in skull, the wide open eyes, and he grimaced. Streaks of bright red across a porcelain white face, electric blue eyes paling to white. John swallowed.

"That's…" he managed to squeak. He looked away and nodded. Molly refused to come in and do the autopsy that Lestrade had requested.

When John had returned to the flat from the hospital, he found Mrs. Hudson. She was holding the skull, petting it gently. She was sniveling and crying, mumbling things. John had come up next to her on the couch and put an arm around her rigid, feeble frame.

"I know," he kept saying. His voice was weak. His eyes were tired. "I know."

I kept watching until I found it boring and uncomfortable. I went to the spot where I had fallen and had hit the sidewalk.

Instantaneous, painless death.

There was only a brief moment of shock.

The blood was still ground into the pavement.

I shuddered. Odd, how a ghost can shudder.

I looked up. In the seconds that it took for my body to fall off the ledge and hit the ground, I had come up with only two scenarios that could only potentially save my life. Only two. And they weren't even close to being a guaranteed success. Two. I could have done better.

Damn John. Every time I thought about him I was somehow teleported back to wherever he was. That's how I ended up attending my own funeral.

They had a funeral. It was surreal, to be there standing above my own headstone while people in black gathered around it. My body was there, below their feet, in a box, dead.

I shuddered again.

Lestrade showed up, accompanied by Sally. She looked devastated and she cried silently, tears streaming down her face, yet not making a sound. Lestrade stood reserved, a permanent grimace on his face.

Mycroft, to my surprised, also made an appearance. John went to shake his hand and thanked him for coming. My brother said nothing. He approached the headstone and stared for a very long time at it, while the others waited. He didn't move, and it almost seemed like he didn't breathe. Then he took a tiny white flower from his jacket pocket, and placed it gently on the stone.

"You're a bastard," he muttered, his voice cracking just slightly. Then he left.

Molly had come. She was the first to arrive besides Mrs. Hudson and John, who came before anyone else several hours earlier. She was sobbing before she even reached the grave site. I felt a knot form in my throat.

Molly loved me. She told me that night at St. Bart's. I had stood in the dark, surprised that I was finally able to confront her and tell her the things I told her.

"What do you need?"

"You."

She had stood there, frozen. I had thought I might have given her a fright. Then she smiled.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Molly—"

"I love you. I don't care if you don't feel the same. I know you probably never did, or never will, but I love you. The way you stare into the microscope like no one or nothing else matters, the way you work so much sometimes I find you passed out on a slab in the morgue, the way you look at people like you know they can do better…I love you Sherlock Holmes."

Those are the moments when I needed John the most. To tell me what was humanly acceptable to say. I instead chose not to say anything, partly because I felt the familiar sensation of tears building behind my eyes and a clamp forming around my heart.

"You said you needed me," she continued, drawing near to me. She wrapped her arms, thin but slightly masculine, around my waist. "You know that whatever you need…I'll do anything for you, Sherlock."

I swallowed, had to look away, gather myself before looking back down at her.

"I'm going to die."

"We all are."

"No Molly. Someone is going to try to kill me. I'm going to die. I know it. I don't know when, I don't know how, I don't…" God I hated admitting how much I _didn't_ know.

She just smiled and put her hand on my face.

"What do you need from me?"

At that moment, I wasn't exactly sure.

"I…needed to make sure that…" I searched her face for some hint. Bags underneath her eyes. She needed sleep but she wouldn't tell me. Same clothes and make up as yesterday. She hadn't been home. Small smudge of coffee on the side of her lip. Worked late last night.

_ No Sherlock,_

John's voice in my head. I blinked.

_Don't do that. Look for something else._

Eyes fixed on me…waiting…

"I needed to make sure that you didn't hate me," I croaked.

Molly looked surprised.

"Why would I hate you?"

I cleared my throat. This was difficult.

"A lot of people do. They don't…understand that I'm not used to being…"

"Connected?"

She smiled. Suppose she felt smarter.

_ Stop that Sherlock. Not the time._

"Right."

She leaned up then, and her lips touched mine. She kissed me. I didn't know what to do. I held her as she clung to me and kissed me. She entangled her fingers in my hair.

_Close your eyes, Sherlock, kiss her back. You'll know what to do. For God's sake Sherlock, you can't stare at people when they kiss you, you idiot._

My eyes shut. I concentrated on collaborating the movements of my mouth in response to hers. This was so difficult. She started pushing me towards a table, and I put a hand behind me to steady myself as we reached it. I knew where this was going, I knew what she wanted, and I wasn't sure if I wanted it too.

_ Don't be an imbecile, you came here for this!_

Did I? Did I know that Molly Hooper loved me, and that she would allow me to free myself of my virginity because I knew I was going to die? Something told me this wasn't how things like this happened. I don't think she cared. Neither did I.

She broke the kiss first.

"Sherlock you've never done this before," she said. I had somehow gotten to be lying down on a lab table, which was thankfully devoid of everything but some papers. I looked at her.

"Done what?"

"This," she said, smiling. "Kissing, touching, loving."

I thought for a moment.

"No."

She giggled, and for the first time I actually noticed how pleasant a sound it was.

"It's fine then, we'll take it slow," she said. She began to unbutton my blazer, then my shirt. I swallowed.

"Molly," I began. "You know that if we do this I—"

"You don't seem like someone who can commit anyway, Sherlock Holmes," she replied. "I know this is what you wanted, and to be honest, I'm strangely alright with it."

Molly Hooper was not like this. Or maybe I just didn't know that she actually was.

"Molly," I sighed.

_Let it happen, Sherlock. Stop trying to be so smart and let it happen. This is why you ruin everything._

A pang of guilt at the thought, a rush of cold as my clothes were removed, and a surge of pleasure as I felt her begin touching me. I closed my eyes because I felt that if I watched or looked at anything, I'd feel compelled to distract myself from this…this…

Ecstasy.

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><p>The funeral was over. Mrs. Hudson and John were the only ones who remained. I looked at them.<p>

"I'm angry," John was saying. I came closer to them, standing between them and the headstone.

Mrs. Hudson walked away after complaining, perhaps reminiscing, before John spoke.

"I owe you so much," he said. He went to touch the headstone, and I moved out of the way. I watched him, transfixed. I wanted to tell him that I was there. I wanted to touch his hand and let him know that I was alright now. That I was a corpse in the ground.

He started to walk away, then turned. His face was flared with emotion.

He asked me for "one more miracle."

"Don't be dead."

I felt a tear escape its threshold in my eye.

"John," I said. He didn't hear me. Of course he didn't.

He stood there, and he cried, just briefly. I watched him. I cried.

Then he took a deep, heaving breath and straightened, as if at attention, and militaristically walked away. I blinked away remaining tears and thought. I looked at the headstone.

_SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_ 1984-2012_

_ MAY HE REST IN PEACE_

I sighed. Then a rush of thought.

_A film, long time ago, John made me watch it with him. Ricky Gervais, awful movie, John laughed, I didn't understand. Something with the undead, couldn't move on, unfinished business, ghosts everywhere. Minutes of death, back to life, could speak with them, solved their problems._

_ Search for title:_

_Ghost Town._

The film.

I smiled and looked back at John. He and Mrs. Hudson were consoling each other, Mrs. Hudson sobbing away and John crying silently, holding her.

_Ghost Town._

It could work. Couldn't it? How accurate was the film? Think, Sherlock.

_I'm standing here, at my grave site, and supposedly I'm supposed to move on to some afterlife, unless this was after life._

_ Assess that possibility._

_ Doubtful. _

_Afterlife: definition: the lifetime after the one in which we find ourselves in: correlate: I'm still in the same life, invisible, undetectable: conclusion: highly unlikely._

_ Ghost Town._

_ Plot: a man is in an accident, and "dies" for a few minutes, then is able to be revived. Now he can see and communicate with ghosts who have not been able to move on to said afterlife because of "unfinished business." He helps them solve their worldly problems so that they may move on._

_ Correlate: I have not moved on because there's something I need to finish, and I need help finishing it._

_ Assess: What do I need to finish?_

_ Search for possible unfinished tasks:_

_ Songs; conversations; chores—_

_ Bigger._

_ Experiments; cases; goals—_

_ Possibility 1) Unfinished case._

_ Experiments; cases; goals; relationships—_

_ Possibility 2) Reconcile Mycroft_

_ Experiments; cases; goals; relationships; dreams—_

_ Possibility 3) Self-fulfillment?_

_ Assess: What have I done to achieve self-fulfillment?_

_ Search for meaningful events:_

_ Save lives; solve cases; protect; serve justice—_

_ Back._

_ Save lives; solve cases; protect—_

_ Protect._

_ John._

I felt someone touch my arm. I opened my eyes. It was dark. I had been there for hours.

Who could have touched me? I was intangible. I was ectoplasm, or something of the sort. Then who—

"So you've figured it out, have you?"

Moriarty.

"We're in the same boat, you know."

My eyes were wide.

"We've both got a few things left to do. Though I suppose yours is a little more _heart-warming _than mine, hm?"

I was frozen.

"Oh come, Sherlock. Dear dear Sherlock. We're dead! Isn't it fun? We can frolic about and not give a care in the world! Though you'll probably want to take care of that 'unfinished business' thing, won't you?"

He pinched my cheek. I stared at him a long while as he danced around the headstone, my headstone, and sang off key.

"Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, AH AH AH AH!"

"You can't be serious," I finally said. He turned to look at me.

"One FINAL PROBLEM, my lovely Sherlock! _The_ final problem!"

"No…"

"Yes!"

"You couldn't have known…"

"See? That's why you're ORDINARY! You don't think ahead! You don't think that any moment you could be DEAD and once you're DEAD you have the ability to FUCK with the LIVING!"

I watched him. He was dead, like me. But he looked so real.

"How—"

"Ah ah ah, Sherlock! This is where you get to play my game and I get to watch and make sure you're playing it fairly! Good luck my love!"

With that, he faded. I reached for him. He was gone. I growled in anger. I shouted his name. I punched the tree. I fell to the ground and cried, grasping the moist earth above my coffin.

"John," I sobbed. "Oh John…my John Watson…"

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><p>John sat in the chair for hours. He went through the scenario thousands of times in his head. He played it back over and over again, searching for some way to rationalize the possibility that it was just another trick, just another fluke, that Sherlock would walk through the door in the next hour or two with some spectacular story and life would carry on. He looked at the empty doorway.<p>

"Dammit!" he shouted, flipping the side table over. The tea tray clattered on the ground and the books and papers flew sporadically in the dank, empty air of the flat.

John stood and robotically picked the things up and replaced them. He sat back down. He looked at the chair across from him.

Sherlock's chair.

The violin rested, poised, as if at any given moment someone would reach for it and play.

John closed his eyes tightly. Everything in the flat made him want to be dead next to his friend. Everything in the flat was Sherlock's life, sprawled meticulously throughout every crack and corner so that if John just sat long enough with his eyes closed he'd feel Sherlock all around him, still there, not…

"Dead."

The word fell to the ground like a weight.

"Sherlock is dead."

John gripped the chair.

"Sherlock is dead!"

His voice escalated.

"Sherlock is DEAD!"

The shout hung in the space around John, echoing deep within him.

Hot tears seeped from his tightly closed eyes as he panted, trembling.

"Sherlock…" he murmured.

Moments passed like rocks falling in water…

"Yes John," I whispered. I stroked his head. "I'm here, John. I'm here. I just…haven't figured it out yet. I'm still here."

"Sherlock…"

"It's alright John. I'll find a way."

"Please Sherlock…I need you to come back."

"I know John. Soon. Just wait for me."

"Sherlock…"

I stood. He was falling asleep, exhausted. I gripped his arm, but he didn't feel it. Odd sensation, how I could feel and touch and yet it was no reciprocated. I hated how he couldn't hear me, how I could make him ok. I needed to fix this. I looked at the skull on the mantle.

"You warned me of this," I said to it. "Didn't you?"

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><p>NOTE: Choppy I know, but that's that for now. I'll of course continue, since I've got a few things planned, but I just needed something to set my mind at until season 3…maybe? I don't know. Leave reviews please and thanks.<p> 


	2. The World's Only Consulting Phantom

NOTE: I'm feeling very inspired. Pardon all the typos in the last chapter, by the way. In the spur of the moment proofreading was shirked upon

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><p>CHAPTER 2<p>

The World's Only Consulting Phantom

I sulked for a few days. I watched the living come and go. I sat on the stoop of 221B and let John and Mrs. Hudson and occasionally Lestrade pass through me without anything but a shiver through their electrified fibers. I watched John sleep. I watched him eat. I watched him sob and I watched him get angry and I watched him throw things. Then I watched him start to pack away my things. Boxes were his only consolation.

I watched him take things off the shelves, smile at them, dust them off, hold them in his hands, frown at them, sit for hours staring at them, tears welling in his eyes at some moments. As the days passed, however, he stopped crying. He had no tears. He was robotic, detached. He would lay in bed, sometimes for an entire day, staring, drifting to sleep, waking, staring.

I was concerned.

Thank God for Mrs. Hudson. She would come up to the flat very often and bring him food, clean up, help him pack. Sometimes she wouldn't even say anything. She'd just sit on the couch and watch him as he went through my worldly belongings and stowed them away in the cardboard fortresses. Human contact. Human connection. These things were so much more important and so much more exemplified when one was dead.

I was aching.

Then I awoke from my stupor one day. I decided that being dead must have some advantages. I learned that I could will myself to go places I was familiar with if I thought hard enough about them. I learned that I could move things just slightly, and that sometimes, if I caught the right type of person in the right moment, I could brush against them tangibly. I could make my existence known. I could make a room go cold. I could phase through solid material. I could see other dead people.

But I couldn't comfort John. I couldn't protect him.

I found that in those days of sulking I had figured out what my unfinished business was: Moriarty's game wasn't over. He had had plans for our afterlife, or whatever this was, which seemed to be the only explanation.

"The impossible must be true."

I was angry that this had to happen, and in this way. Moriarty...I underestimated him. Immensely. It would cost me...well it had already cost me my life, and now my after life? This man was insane. He was a maniac. I was appalled at the massive amount of stress I could still be under as a dead person. It was irritating.

I visited Mycroft occasionally. He busied himself idly with things that didn't matter. Then he would drink copious amounts of brandy and pass out. Every night. He had the headlines pinned to his mirror frame:

_SUICIDE OF FAKE DETECTIVE!_

_SHERLOCK HOLMES: FALSE FATE!_

_"MASTERMIND" DETECTIVE TAKES HIS OWN LIFE!_

One night, when he was particularly drunk, he had punched the mirror and had to be sent to the hospital for stitches. He would curse and growl obscenities and flail about his bedroom until he fell into a heap on his bed, muttering still.

"Sherlock you bastard…you idiot…you half-wit…you bastard! I hate you, I hate you, I hate myself, I hate you."

Sometimes he would cry. Most of the time he just grumbled and slept. I didn't know what to make of it.

Then I mustered up whatever supernatural courage I had to visit Molly. She had quit her job and was living with her mother. It took me a while to find her.

The first time I had seen her in about a month since my death and the night at St. Bart's, she was sitting alone at the dinner table in her mother's house.

"Molly? Coming to bed dear?"

"In a little while, mum."

"Alright, love. Night night."

I sat across from her. She shivered and it seemed like she was looking right at me.

"Molly," I whispered. She sighed heavily and put her head on the table, surrounding it with her arms. She sniffed. She was crying. I ran my fingers through her hair.

"Oh Sherlock I miss you so much," she said quietly, sniffling and hiccupping. I groaned.

"I miss you too Molly," I said. "Please...see me..."

Why was I so determined to rebuild the connections I had lost with these people? Why did this all suddenly matter? Did I just tell Molly Hooper that I missed her? Being dead had taken a toll on my safety net. Why was I caring? I didn't know if I liked it.

"Sherlock I know I didn't mean much to you..."

I felt a clenching sensation within my stomach.

"...and I know that what we did that night..."

I swallowed harder than I think I ever have.

"...wasn't love..."

I made a small anguished noise.

"...but I love you. And I'm so alone without you."

I stood abruptly, slamming my slightly translucent hands upon the table top. The chair then fell behind me, and I looked at Molly. I had moved it.

She gasped and stood.

"What..." she whispered. She looked around. I blinked.

_Situation: I am dead, and hardly tangible, and yet I moved the chair._

_Assess: How is this possible?_

_Search for possibilities..._

_Possibility 1) Emotional distress_

_Possibility 2) Surge in energy_

_Possibility 3) Cosmic inconsistency_

_Option for Solution: Try again._

She was still frozen in fright. I was panting, and if I had a pulse, it'd be racing. I tried to lift the table. I willed myself into needing to life that table edge, needing to show Molly that I was there, that she wasn't alone, that I was there with her.

It worked.

I was able to grasp the table and lift it just slightly before letting it drop from my hands. Molly shrieked slightly and jumped back, knocking the chair over behind her. I was riveted.

"Come on Molly...you know it's me...come on," I encouraged, hoping that maybe if I willed myself to be heard like I did with the table, that the same logic would prove to be effective.

"Molly," I said. "Molly. Molly! Hear me Molly! God dammit it hear me! See me!"

She looked confused, flabbergasted, afraid.

I roared and slammed my fists on the table.

"Molly!"

"Ah Sherlock!" she screamed, stumbling backwards and falling down on the floor. She pointed at me with a shaking finger. "Sherlock! D-D-Dear God!"

I smiled.

"Molly," I said softly. "Can you see me?"

She nodded, terrified.

I thought of phasing through the table, but assessing the situation briefly, I figured that I'd rather not frighten to death my only chance at communication with the living, so I walked around it. I knelt beside her.

"Can you still see me?" I asked. She was horrified, petrified, her eyes large and her mouth agape.

"Sh-Sh-Sher—"

"You're not imagining anything, Molly. It's me, I'm here."

I tried to sound reassuring. Tender. Gentle. Some other word that John had always told me I lacked the capacity for. I winced at the thought before I disregarded it.

She lifted a hand to touch my face, but when she went to tentatively press her fingers on my cheek, they phased through me. I swallowed and nodded once.

"It's ok," I said. "Don't be frightened."

"H-H-How are you…and wh-why…oh Sherlock…this isn't happening I…"

She was in shock. I sighed, irritated. Difficult. No time for this.

"Molly, you have to listen to me," I began. "Listen to every word I'm about to tell you and commit it wholly to your memory, exactly as I tell you, understand?"

"You were dead…I saw you…" she said quietly. Tears were streaming down her face and she was trembling. I didn't have time for this. I looked away though, because I felt that if I watched her cry my newfound humility would catch up with me.

"Molly, I don't have much time," I ground out with as much patience as I could. "Please, listen to me."

She took a deep breath or two and closed her eyes, steadying herself. She nodded, silent, wiping furiously at the tears on her face. She wouldn't look at me.

"I need you to go to my flat, tell John that whatever he says, everything you are saying is absolutely true and that he needs to believe it. His life…his life may depend on it. Tell him that I came to you tonight, tell him not to ask how or why because there wasn't time to explain, and tell him that Moriarty's plan was infinitely more elaborate than I had anticipated. Tell him that Moriarty had planned for a challenge in the afterlife and that he might be in danger unless I am able to somehow communicate with him. I'm still figuring this out, so I don't know much now, but tell him to be careful, stay away from cases, risky places, even my brother. Tell him to keep Mrs. Hudson safe, and tell him that he needs to make you stay with him, to look after you as well. He cannot let on that he knows any of this. I don't know if Moriarty has figured out much about the supernatural, because I don't know much myself, but if he is able to find some kind of way of being omnipotent, the only way for John to protect himself is to just wait for me. Wait for me until I can let him know more. And—"

"Where do you live?"

"What?"

"You've never told me where you lived…"

I blinked. She was staring at me intently, drinking up every word I told her like it was divine gospel. I watched her for a moment.

"221B Baker Street," I said hoarsely. She nodded. "I know this is confusing for you, Molly, but please do this for me. I need you to do this for me, to make sure that you and John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and anyone else Moriarty has involved is kept safe. Please."

"Sherlock," she said. Her tone…it was like the way she spoke to me the night in St. Bart's, when her lips were pressed against my ear and her body was draped around me, clinging to me as if she knew how much I wanted her to. I closed my eyes.

"Yes," I whispered.

"I miss you."

I made a tiny noise, unsure if it was categorized with sadness or restraint. I opened my eyes.

"Can you remember everything I told you?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell John as soon as possible?

"Yes."

"I don't know when I'll be able to do this again, but Molly I need you to completely trust me because—"

"I do trust you," she said. "Unquestioningly."

I took a sharp breath inwards.

"Molly," I said quietly. I wanted to touch her face, to kiss her cheek, to hold her. I reached up to tuck the hair behind her ear, but then she started, alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly? Molly I'm still here."

"Sherlock?"

She looked around. I was gone to her. I sighed heavily.

"Good night Molly Hooper," I said, standing.

Then I willed myself to be back on the stoop of Baker Street, and there I was. Alone. Dead.

It began to rain.


	3. Cracks Begin To Show

NOTE: Thank you my few but appreciated reviewers. You are definitely helping me stay focused and engaged in this story! Sorry for the long wait. A lot has been going on, but I've got another installment on the way as well as Chapter 1 of my new story, _Emblazoned_. Look forward to it. :)

Chapter 3

Cracks Begin To Show

I thought long and hard that night in the rain. I was impervious to the elements, so it was a bit fantastic to sit on the brick steps and remain completely dry as the thunder roared above me and the cascade of precipitation plummeted down to earth. Strange thing, being dead. I still was unable to whole-heartedly grasp all the concepts of it.

I hated that.

Eventually, the sun came up weakly behind the dark clouds, and the rain continued.

It was mid morning when I finally decided to return to the flat and sit outside the door. Going in seemed wrong. I heard John talking as I went up the steps. He had always had some odd fascination with leaving the window open just a crack whenever it rained. Said he enjoyed the smell. Said the flat felt less stuffy. Said I didn't understand.

I didn't.

I enjoyed listening to him speak. He had always had such a wonderful way of talking. His voice was smooth, meek, but resonant. It was so deliciously human. So resolutely different from my own and my brother's. Mycroft spoke with such authoritarian resolve that it was nearly exhausting to listen to for more than four minutes. I had timed it once.

John was speaking to my brother on the phone that morning. He was saying that maybe he should come to the flat, or vice versa, and they can talk.

"Bridge the gap," he kept saying. "Make things better. Not right, but better."

So absolutely simple, John was. So uncomplicated, so sound and whole in himself. I found the idea repulsive but fascinating. He could make himself and his tiny, lackluster way of life seem so appealing sometimes that I'd stay up for hours on end contemplating the "John Watson Complex, Or Lack Thereof," as I had affectionately entitled the musing in my cortex. John always had questions, always had inquiries, always knew so little, and yet he was enigmatic. He was elusive in his ability to just…be.

I loved him.

"Mycroft," he was saying. "What happened to Sh…no one could have known..."

He wouldn't say my name.

"I know…yes I know you don't blame yourself, though you bloody well should…"

Defending me, as always.

"Just…relax a bit. Come for dinner tonight. Yes. Alright? Alright. Bye."

I heard the phone drop onto the desk followed by the patented John Watson sigh of confusion, and I smiled.

I missed him.

"Damn you, you git," he said. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was addressing me from behind the door. I knew that he wasn't. He talked to himself a lot these days.

"Your brother is worse than you," he said, and I could hear the smile on his lips. "Though I wish just a little that he wasn't so damn demanding. Must have been awful to live with."

"Absolutely," I agreed.

"He wants to feel like he hasn't done anything wrong…that he didn't contribute to your…"

He couldn't say it.

"…but he did. He did. He made a huge mistake and he knew and he tried to make it better but he made it worse. The damn fool. But I can't make myself blame him."

"Of course you can't, John. You're too compassionate."

"You're probably laughing at me right now, aren't you?"

"Not quite."

"Ah, well, you never really laughed, did you? You more so just smirked at my lack of intellect."

I smirked. Silence. Then I heard the door below open. I got up and sat at the top of the steps. I glanced over the banister.

_Woman. Tacky red and white raincoat, hood up, rain boots with cherries on them—I've seen that before—skirt that was just slightly too large, no umbrella. Short but not stout, hunched over due to lack of confidence. Can't see the eyes. Thin lips, not much to look at, tiny nose, less-than-defined chin. Jawbone a bit masculine, hands are small but nimble, chipping nail polish. John's got a new girlfr—_

"John?" the woman called in a small voice. I recognized it instantly. "John, it's Molly Hooper."

I covered my mouth with my hand.

"I'm coming up."

She hung her rain coat on the hook behind the door and made her way up to our flat, the squeaking rubber of her boots only mildly irritating. She passed through me and stopped.

She looked around.

"John, I think you've got a draft," she said after a beat and continued walking. I sighed heavily, then stood to follow her.

When she reached the door, she knocked. I was about to walk through but I wanted to wait.

"Coming," said John from inside.

The door opened. John smiled half-heartedly.

"Molly," he said, and they embraced. I surged with anger. To watch them embrace there, to want so much for that contact while they simply were able to do it without a second thought, it infuriated me.

"Can I come in?" Molly asked meekly. She kept looking around, like she knew I was there. My anger was defused and I smiled.

"Of course," John offered, and stepped aside as she walked in. I followed quickly and John shut the door.

"I haven't seen you in a while," he said as Molly sat on the couch. "Up to much?"

John sat in his normal chair, and for a moment, there was silence as they both looked at the boxes in the room, and the empty chair across from John.

My chair.

I walked over and sat in it.

"John, there's something I have to tell you," Molly said. She played with the tiny ring on her finger.

_Tarnished silver, much too old of a style for her, given as a gift from a relative, probably an aunt or—_

"Stop," I said aloud.

"Anything," John said. "Are you alright?"

"I…I don't know John," she said to him, looking up from the tiny band. "I don't know. Something so strange happened last night. Something…I'm supposed to tell you. He said I was supposed to tell you exactly as I heard him say it."

John looked confused.

"Who?" he asked.

"He said that no matter what you think that you have to take this as truth, that everything I'm about to tell you is 100% true and you must believe it is. Because it is, John."

"Molly, who came to you last night? Are you alright? Is everything ok?"

"John, let her speak," I said. "Continue, Molly."

_Idiot. They can't hear you._

I grimaced.

Molly stood and approached me. I stood, and she hesitantly sat down on the edge of the chair. I leaned against the fire place. The rain was coming down harder.

"John," she said. "Sherlock came to me last night."

John took a breath and closed his eyes. He shook his head.

"Molly don't—"

"John, you have to listen to me!" she said angrily. "I hardly believe it myself but it happened and he told me I have to tell you this because your life may depend on it!"

John looked at her. I touched Molly's shoulder.

"It's ok," I said. "He'll listen to you."

She shivered a bit before continuing.

"He told me…last night…that I had to tell you this because your life may depend on it. He said that I had to tell you that he couldn't explain how he came last night, or what was going on, but that M…Mori…"

"Moriarty," John said vehemently. I nodded once.

"Yes," Molly said. "He said that Moriarty had planned for something in the afterlife, that there was some kind of final challenge, and that he didn't know what was going on yet but you had to keep us all safe. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, yourself…me. He said we need to stay safe because that Moriarty person's got something up his sleeves and he doesn't want us in danger..."

Molly's eyes were welling up with tears, and John ran his hand through his hair. They were stressed. Worried. I felt heaviness in my chest. These people...I took them for granted when I was with them, and now that I was gone, I wanted nothing more than to go back. To be with them.

"He...said that you should stay away from cases, risks, and from his brother-"

John chuckled quietly.

"And...and he said that we just have to wait for him to figure things out...to let us know more...to come back some how. Because he doesn't know what Moriarty knows, he said not to let on that any of this happened. And..."

A tear had broken through and streamed silently down her face.

"He said that I needed to stay here," she said weakly. "To stay safe."

John nodded.

"Of course you can stay here," he said. They were both reserved, quiet, and the minutes passed. John kept rubbing his face with his palms, as if he could wash all the confusion away.

"Molly," he finally said. "You know this is hard for me to believe." Molly swallowed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she had retrieved from her pocket.

"I know John," she said with a tiny, strained voice. "I know. I had a hard time believing it too. I really did...but I saw him, John. I saw him. He was there. I had to trust what I saw. I had to trust him."

John sighed heavily.

"Molly, I just don't know if I can believe this."

"John, please! Why won't you believe me?"

"Because Molly! You're telling me you've seen a ghost! How am I supposed to-"

"Dammit John believe her!" I roared.

I punched the mirror and it cracked massively.

Silence froze the living.

"What in God's..." John breathed. He stared, horrified, at the mirror.

"Sherlock, I knew you were here," Molly said quietly, smiling but trembling even so. John stood slowly and touched the mirror.

"Yes John," I said. "You know what you saw."

There was pain in my hand but no wound. No blood. I rubbed my knuckles. Interesting.

Then John recoiled in fear, stumbling backward into the chair again.

"Sherlock!" he yelped.

I cocked my head. He was staring intently at the mirror.

"My God...it's you..." he said horrifically. I turned and looked into the shattered glass...

...and there I was.

"Oh...interesting," I said, touching my face. A reflection. Slightly transparent, but there. I reached out and touched the glass. Why hadn't I noticed this before?

"Ah...stupid stupid," I said. I shook my head. "Obvious. You have noticed before. You saw your reflection in every taxi that passed by. It felt too normal to notice. You're dead you idiot. Something should have seemed wrong. Stupid."

"Sherlock?" John said tentatively. I snapped back into reality...or what little grasp of it I had left. I looked at him in the mirror.

"John," I said. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded, slowly. It seemed that as soon as anyone could see me, they could hear me as well. I was beginning to get the hang of this. I smiled.

"John," I said. "You know what you're seeing is real."

He nodded again, and he began to stand and approach me. I looked back at him.

"Sherlock..." he whispered. He reached out to touch me.

_Please be able to touch me, please. Please John. Just touch me. I need to feel real. I need to feel alive. I need to feel you touch me._

His fingers lightly brushed my cheek. I shivered.

"John," I breathed. Rough, calloused fingers, just barely stroking my cheekbone. I surged with life. I reached up for his hand and was able to grasp it. I pressed it against my face.

"Sherlock..." he repeated. He drew close to me. He could see me. He could feel me. I felt a cool tear trickle down and streak my skin with it's moist path. "It's you..."

"Yes John," I said, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder. "It's me."

Molly made a tiny whimper, and I looked at her. I smiled.

"Thank you, Molly," I said. She swallowed and stood.

"Anything for you, Sherlock," she said quietly, eyes shining and glassy. She went to put her small hand on my back.

Touch.

They could touch me.

My habit of curiosity was wracking at my brain, but at that moment I didn't want to analyze why or how this could be.

They could touch me. That was all that mattered.

John gathered me up into his arms and hugged me tightly, and his frame quivered. Molly drew towards me and wrapped her arms around me as well.

"Sherlock what's...what's going on..." John mumbled, his head pressed to my chest. I shook my head and rubbed his back.

"I don't know, John," I said. "I have no idea. But I promise I'll find out. Promise me you'll stay safe."

John nodded and backed away from me, wiping at his face. I turned to Molly and put my hands on her shoulders. I opened my mouth to begin to speak, but she leaned up and kissed me.

I didn't fight it, didn't try to figure it out like I did before. I just let her mouth crush against mine and let my fingers get entangled in her hair as our lips were locked tightly.

I broke first.

"Molly," I said. I stroked her face. "You're so strong. You're so brave. I can't ever thank you enough for what you've done for me."

"I love you, Sherlock," she said quietly. I kissed her gently on the cheek, let my lips graze across her face and lips, and kissed her other cheek. Then I turned to John, who was standing, arms crossed, still a bit shaken.

"I'm sorry I broke the mirror," I said. John scoffed.

"Think that's the least of my problems," he said. "How long do you have before we can't see you or anything?"

"I've no idea. It varies. I've only been able to appear to the living a few times, and never as vividly as now."

John winced at my mention of "the living."

"John," I said gently. "I know this is-"

"You better get on with what you're going to say then before you phase out again."

I smiled.

"Everything Molly told you is all I know," I said. "Moriarty told me that I've got to play his game, but I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. All I know is that you have to stay cautious."

There was a beat of silence before the room began to nearly shudder. John and Molly braced themselves as I stumbled against the mantle.

"I'm proud of you!"

Moriarty's voice echoing throughout the room.

"Well done, Sherly. Well done indeed. But unfortunately, you aren't quite finished yet are you?"

He laughed.

"Sherlock what's going on?" John cried over the clamour and the sudden swirling noises. The room went dark, the air was cold.

I felt him there. I didn't know how but I knew that he was.

A final whisper.

"The final problem, Sherlock Holmes. Solve the final problem."

Dead silence.

The lights were flickering, the room was amiss, and it was cold. John and Molly stood, terrified. I was confused.

"What..." I began. I didn't even know what questions to ask. I didn't even know where to begin.

"Sherlock what was that?" John said hoarsely.

"Moriarty," I replied angrily.

He obviously knew more about the afterlife than I did. He was beating me but I didn't know what at. I couldn't even begin to understand what was going on and I was getting tired of it.

John chuckled. I cocked an eyebrow and looked at him.

"For Christ's sake," he said. "You've barely been dead for a month and you still can't catch a break."

I sighed through a smile, and with a final good bye, I left them. I had a lot more thinking to do. The game was most certainly on.


End file.
